This – right -here – is – bliss.
Fingers flying over the keyboard, barely touching, caressing it like a beloved, sacred tool. Jumbled thoughts unfurling like a discarded yarn of wool. Tongue-tied, lost, dead me finding regeneration. That feeling of letting out, pouring of soul into the cup of nirvana. Discovering what being alive means and still tasting divinity. Finally finding a channel, that winding rocky pathway to self.
What is writing to some of us? Clue: it’s not just a hobby. It runs it’s tendrils deep into your core, it soaks you up like being drenched by a waterfall. Like a tear, a hearty laugh, a passionate kiss, great sex, you feel it in all your being, not just the point of contact.
Yet, you lose it – occasionally, predictably. You get caught up in the daily grind, that robotic, sensible, selfless life you’ve convinced yourself is what adults do. The gift gets the hint, it lets you be, understanding, respecting your needs. Or it feels ignored and sulks like a lover taking offence. You have to coax it back, by sweet words, by candles and coddling, by odes. Is this what we’re doing, paying platitudes to the miffed gift? Convincing it how much it means to us? Surely, it knows. Something that is the essence of your soul knows how much it means to you.
Or is it working a mystery beyond us? To shower it’s presence sparingly so we can cope, we aren’t blinded by it, or drowned inside of it. Is it working to protect us from our own destructive tendencies? Isn’t that reducing it to a hit, a cocaine shot? Destructive in large doses, and offering enlightening, ecstatic insights in intermittent hits. Being in love, being high, or being creative is like playing the cat and mouse game. The cat and mouse are interchangeable, we chase or we’re chased, we kill or we’re killed.
The gift, the bliss, watches, that all-knowing, slanting gaze from afar, a smirk on it’s perfect chiselled features, mocking, it’s form like a sleek goddess, gold skin glistening, tempting –just out of reach.